Small Time Crooks
by Sadistic Fox
Summary: Two small time crooks team up with an ex-cop turned ex-con to pull the biggest job of their careers, all while another crook named Leon is hopelessly trying to pay back an enourmous debt owed to a big time mobster.
1. Chapter 1

It was a decent looking day when Catalina Vialpando stepped inside of 'Roscoe's Chicken & Waffle' in Portland. She always enjoyed unwinding after a job to a plate of syrupy waffles. She had walked in, did the usual, got a booth by the window and ordered a large plate of waffles and some bacon.

"Alright Beautiful, that order'll be ready in just a moment." The young waiter said, the slightest hint of a crude smile crossing his face.

Beautiful. Catalina turned the word over in her head several times. She tried to tell herself that it was a mere compliment and nothing else, but couldn't find it in her to do it. Probably just a nice young guy who was told to be extra nice to the lady customers. Well, maybe not. Just another stupid shit remark made in hopes of getting Catalina to act all cutesy, maybe even get her phone number. She laughed out loud. Cutesy wasn't exactly her thing. She preferred a guy you could enjoy robbing a bank with, or at least someone who would stand up to her every once in awhile. They were few and far between, most of them were overtaken by these fucking macho wannabe guys who can't fuck unless they're looking at themselves in a mirror.

She wondered if the bright eyed young waiter with his shiny black hair that was spiked up in the front, his 6'1 stature and athletic build had ever held a gun. She'd held a few, used most every one as well. Her thoughts drifted back to her childhood, taking her father's old .22 and taking potshots at birds. She remembered the sense of triumph when she hit her first one, remembered watching it's helpless form falling to the ground and not moving again. Then, one boring night when her mother was out trying to sell a trick on the street and her father was passed out in his old squeaky arm chair, she wondered what it'd be like to rob a place. Maybe part of it was fueled by the sense of hate she got when she looked at that lazy, fat and out of shape blob snoring away in that goddamn chair, without a care in the world. So she snuck the .22 and wandered out to the local 24 hour liquor store, pointed the thing at the clerk and telling him to empty the till. Pointing a gun at a human being had seemed so much different from firing at birds, she'd panicked and her finger slipped on the trigger. _Wam. _The clerk had doubled over as the bullet pounded into his gut. She'd grabbed the paper bag full of jack and ran. She'd kept running, not looking back to that poverty stricken Mexican hellhole she lived in. She never saw her prostitute mother or her alcoholic father again, and didn't feel to bad about it.

She could feel the gun that she currently held stuck in her waist, the cold steel pressing against her belly. But it felt good, knowing it was there. Nickel plated .38, Smith and Wesson. It was already loaded with the hammer pulled back. She remembered her old boyfriend, guy named Claude, who warned her about carrying a loaded gun with the hammer pulled back. Very sensitive trigger. Claude had been infatuated with guns, spending more time with the goddamn things than with her. She didn't like that too much, a gun was a gun. If you pulled the trigger, the bad guys would go away.

She looked up, Joe Macho the waiter was coming back towards her now with her platter of waffles and bacon on a huge circular tray, surrounded by glasses of orange juice, silverware, and some syrup containers.

He was eyeing her again, his gawking stare making her shift uncomfortably. Maybe it was a compliment, she was attractive. Oblique curves forming her perfect figure with a skin tone that hinted hispanic and an accent that confirmed it. She was clad in black jeans, some sort of black halter top and long black hair tied back in a ponytail. Yep, beautiful.

The waiter was closer now, still eyeing her. His eyes probably trained on her rack now, undressing her in his mind. Goddamn. She wanted him to stop, but didn't want to have to say it. He was almost at the table now, she had to make a decision quick. Have to get up and drive all the way around town to get to Waffle House, or take the stupid behavior and eat her fucking waffles. Stop it, she told herself in her mind. Things never ceased to make a bad day worse. Just one fucking day without something pissing her off beyond the point of no return would be nice, just one time... She thought of that old liquor store clerk doubling over as that .22 slug pounded into his gut.

_Blam_!

She decided as she felt herself pulling that nickel plated .38 from her waist and shot the waiter in the chest. Jesus Christ it was loud, louder that she anticipated. But satisfaction came out of it, her lips started curling into a feral half snarl-half grin. She extended her arm fully, squeezing one eye shut and looking down the top of the barrel. BLAM! He jerked to the side this time, stumbling backwards and about to fall. She could probably get one more shot in before he fell. She raised the gun and trained the small sight on the center of Joe Macho's neck. One final shot, right in the throat. _Pow! _The waiter was thrown backwards, his tray of orders scattering across the floor, dishes shattering. She'd probably have about twenty seconds to walk out the door before the restaurant erupted into chaos and panic.

"You want my fucking phone number you stupid bitch? There!" Catalina screamed, and immediately headed for her car.

Waffle House it was.


	2. Chapter 2

Richie Minor's hand rested on his friend's shoulder. He was pointing at a noodle stand. Not very big, white with 'Chunky Lee's Noodles' scrawled in crude red letters. Behind the little stand stood a short, chinese guy was a beer gut hanging over the front of his pants, under his stained white apron. He was surrounded by an audience of rusty pots and pans, a hot plate, and a bunch of burners. He was tossing vegetables and rice around in one of the pans with a spatula.

"That Ray," Richie said, "is Chunky Lee's noodle stand. They make one hell of a stir fry, I'll take ya to eat there one day when I got more'n eighteen bucks in my pocket. But listen, I know you're a mean mother fucker'n all, but watch yourself around those cats you see walkin around in the blue pajamas,I talked shit to one of those guys once and they drug me into that alley over there and wailed on me with bats. Cracked three ribs and gave me headaches for about three months. Pack of mean sons of bitches, those Triads."

Ray looked around him at the bustling day to day life of Chinatown. The streets were crammed with people going this way and that, here and there. Men, women, adults, kids, and people of many different nationalities, though mostly Chinese. The particular spot where Ray and Richie were was set off from the street, no cars allowed on the neat maroon colored cobblestone. Several neat little mom and pop shops were scattered over the large plus sign that the area formed, supplemented by some big city hot dog vendors and noodle stands.

It was a little odd being in Liberty City as the exact opposite of what he was before he'd left. He'd once been a cop in the 37th precinct of the LCPD. He started out as your typical young guy just having fun being a cop. But he kept finding that more and more of his fellow cops were just as crooked as the muggers and gang bangers that he collared on a daily basis. He tried to stay away from it, but gradually they drew him in. He couldn't stop himself from skimming a few thousand off the top whenever they busted a dope deal, or snagging a couple keys of coke to sell for himself. He found himself in a better apartment, driving a better car, and receiving more respect. Fuck that Serpico stuff, that was all bullshit. There's no way a cop can actually resist joining in on the racket. Then he met Richie. He'd jacked a car and Ray pulled him over. They hit it off as soon as Richie realized that Ray was bent. After that, they hung out together a lot and Richie acted as an informer, telling Ray where dope deals were going down. Things went real well for awhile until somebody, Ray never knew how, found coke in his desk. Without waiting around for him to be tried, he ran to Detroit and had his name illegally changed to Carlo. Under his new identity, he was arrested for attempting to rob a bank and served forty-seven months in jail. Now it was 1995, and he was out of jail. He hooked up with the only contact he could think of, Richie.

The guys in the blue 'pajamas' were scattered throughout the crowd, their actual outfit being a blue jumpsuit with a fish factory logo sewn onto the right breast. They weren't very inconspicuous, any fool could tell they had baseball bats crammed into the inside pockets of those suits. Ray looked back at Richie, looking over a pair of opaque aviators.

"You still come around here after they rough you up?"

"Ah fuck man, they may be some cold blooded cats but they're dumber'n a box of rocks. You think, out of all these people, those slanty eyed fucks are gonna recognize my smiling face? Plus the food around here's too good to ignore."

Ray disagreed, he figured they probably stuck out in a crowd. Ray was dressed in a brown business suit with vertical pin strips going up and down his heavy-set form, the lady at the clothes store had told him it gave the wardrobe a slimming effect. His head of dark brown hair, specks of gray dotting his temples, was slicked back across his scalp neatly. Richie, on the other hand, wasn't as composed. He wore a worn leather jacket, starting to get tanned by dust ground into the material. His mop of dusty black hair was a little unkempt. He was a tall and a fairly skinny guy, not very threatening at first glance. Ray had a deep, raspy and loud voice. Richie had a fading New York accent that could get a little obnoxious at times. The two of them were just sitting around talking, while everyone else shuffled around busily, with things to do and places to be.

"Rich man, let's get outta here. I don't like bein around all these people. I say we go back to your place, discuss this little business venture you talked about." Ray said.

"Oh, so now you're interested?" Richie said, grinning in that boyish way he displayed at times.

"Well, my opportunities for the big payoff are about runnin' dry, and I ain't gettin' any younger. I'm forty-seven years old man, about tired of this shit. I've wasted a lot of time. Besides the cop shit, I did a lot of stupid stuff in Detroit up until they bagged me for that bank job. I just wanna come into some cash and disappear in the Carribean. Make a long story short? I'm up for it." Ray said, "Now let's get outta here."

Four years in the slam had been enough, it was time to get working again.


	3. Chapter 3

A bony fist slammed into Leon's gut, knocking the wind out of him, rendering him breathless. Tony Fabrizzo's forearm was across Leon's throat, pinning him to the cold brick wall, nearly choking him. If he didn't know that yelling would only get him beaten more, he would have told them, fuck, he couldn't _breathe. _Fabrizzo delivered another harsh uppercut into Leon's stomach before he had a chance to take another breath. Leon's natural reflexes caused him to writhe in a desperate attempt to avoid another blow. Fabrizzo only pressed harder with his left forearm, cutting off Leon's air supply. He balled up his right fist, raised it next to his face and slammed it down on Leon's nose. Sticky blood gushed out of his nostrils, his eyes stung as they began watering and Fabrizzo's dark form became blurry.

Tony Fabrizzo was a medium built, middle aged guy with amazingly bony and painful fists. He was wearing a grey pinstriped suit with a white fedora casting an eery shadow over his face and hiding it from view. Standing behind Leon's assailant, facing the opposite direction with his back to him, was a large, stout, heavy set man. It was dark out, and chilly. That fact only made Fabrizzo's blows sting more. The faceless man facing the opposite direction lifted his leg slightly and shook it a little, as if shaking off the cold. A low, husky voice seeped through the darkness.

"Hurry this up, it's cold out here."

Fabrizzo didn't even look back, he just nodded and laid into Leon's gut again, forcing a gob of blood up through his mouth. Leon had enough, through a series of coughing and sputtering he said "Alright, alright fuck man. Stop." More coughing, slinging blood over the front of his tan sport coat.

"You didn't say the magic word." Fabrizzo said, a grin showing through the shadow of his fedora. He slammed his fist into Leon's face again.

Leon could feel his teeth digging into the inside of his lips, hot pain flowed rampant throughout his head. A rhythmic throbbing took place, making his brain seem two times too large for his skull. "Please! Please man, stop!"

Fabrizzo released his hold on Leon and let him slide to the ground. Leon held his throat and spit out mouthfuls of blood. He'd once heard that you could swallow a pint of blood before you get sick, he wondered if it was true...

Fuck. This was bad. He thought about how he got into this situation. Running guns for a big time mobster had never seemed like too big a deal. Get in the truck, drive to a warehouse, unload some boxes and drive back. Periodically he'd be asked to negotiate a deal, though rarely. So far it had never been a big deal, everything went off without a hitch. Drop the truck off, receive a briefcase of money, take it back to the boss and go home. The money was great for what little he did.

He slumped forward and held his head in his hands, trying to shake away the dazed feeling. He felt those bony hands lifting his head up against the brick wall he was leaning on to give him a good view of Tony Fabrizzo's fist slamming into his face again. He took the punch this time without saying a word, more white hot pain flooding into him.

He tried to think of how long he'd known Tony Fabrizzo. Well, not really known him, more like known 'of' him. He'd been introduced once or twice, shook hands or maybe said "How's it goin?". He'd heard he was pretty cold hearted, and while hanging out in the boss's nightclub could frequently hear some poor guy being laid into by him. He didn't think he'd be hearing himself get the hell beat out of him by the same guy.

He felt like yelling in frustration. Something so simple had most likely fucked his life up for a long time. He'd been driving a shipment of guns to some Mexican guys, a few AK47s. Bunch of young hotshots, gotta have the big fancy rifles. If they knew shit about guns, and they wanted to look like hard core professionals, they'd have ordered a shipment of Colt Commando Carbines. But, back to the point, halfway there in the middle of the street, at a red light, some chinese guy in a blue jumpsuit dragged him out of the car, kicked him in the ribs and drove off in his truck all before Leon had a chance to react. So he caught a cab back to the nightclub and told the boss about it. Immediately Tony Fabrizzo had grabbed him and the two escorted out back where Tony did a little persuading.

The low, husky voice of the boss began speaking again, "Get the eight hundred grand that that shipment was worth, give it to me, and get the fuck outta this town by the end of the week. If not, if you have another idea, every single day we'll bring you back here and we'll have an instant replay of tonight except every day it'll get worse and worse. Until, eventually, you'll die. But we won't make it quick, I'll give you a fucking blood transfusion to keep you alive if I have to. Just think about it, and get my mother fucking money."

And without another word the boss and Tony Fabrizzo causally walked back into the nightclub, leaving Leon outside to think about things. For a few minutes he just sat there trying to recover from his beating. Fuck. Fuck! He didn't understand any of this. There wasn't a damn thing he could do, the truck was stolen and that was that. Apparently the boss hadn't been too forgiving or understanding. Now he was faced with an eight hundred thousand dollar debt he could never pay. The money he was paid for running trucks full of dope or guns, or both had been good, about seventy or eighty grand a year, but not sufficient enough to pay a small fortune for some boxes of AK47s.

Shakily he stood up and leaned against the wall, his chest heaving up and down heavily. He walked around the club, to the front, to hail a cab. As he waited for it to roll up, he tried to figure things out. Paying up was out of the question. His conscience was telling him to just leave. Go home, pack your shit, get in your car and drive away. Don't ever turn back, just get out. But, somehow, the boss would find him and he knew that. He looked up at the dark sky, speckled with a star here and there, as of in search of an answer. The pale moonlight stared back at him, as if shrugging it's shoulders.

"Thanks..." Leon muttered as he turned his gaze to the wet pavement of the parking lot in front of the boss's 'Starlight Lounge'.

A classy place with an eighty dollar cover charge, it wasn't surprising to see so many sports cars parked in front of it. Amazingly the boss had found a spot away from the crime ridden mainland of Liberty City, tucked away in a quiet spot surrounded by the greenest grass in the city. The black top of the parking lot was amazingly unscathed, lacking the cracks and potholes of the other rundown rat holes laying around. It was most people's dream to be able to hang out in The Starlight for a night, just a night, and chat it up among rich big shots and partially clad ladies (who the boss let in for free). Just try looking at all that fucking neon, listening to the rhythmic pulsing of music coming from the inside. They served some of the best food in the city as well.

A cab pulled into the parking lot, searching for someone in need of a ride. Leon waved it over and got in the back seat. When asked where to, Leon just told him to just fucking drive, he'd make up his mind on the way.


	4. Chapter 4

Ray and Richie were on the fifth floor of an apartment building on the edge of Portland. Richie had told him not to expect the Taj Mahal, but the place wasn't too bad. There were four rooms. Two of the rooms were bedrooms, one with a full bathroom, one with a half bath, a kitchen, and a living room. When Ray walked in, his eyes took in the atmosphere of the apartment. Richie was right, it was an OK place. The carpet was light brown, a little unwelcoming but clean enough. There was some dull wood panelling that Richie had said he hated but didn't bother having it changed. Scattered around in the room, in no places in particular, were a few recliners, a grey couch with a coffee table in front of it, and a 27 inch television. When they had walked in, the doorway into the small kitchen was directly in front of them, the entrances to the bedrooms to the right, and a long, blank wall of that ugly panelling to the left. There was a wooden dresser against the wall with a mirror above it and a few scattered drawers on the side. Ray was told to have a seat, so he sat on the grey couch.

"The place ain't nothin swanky, but we don't spend a lot of time here anyway. Eat our meals, sleep, get up and stay out all day. Don't know if you noticed, but we aren't much on decoration." Richie said, sitting himself down in a grey, leather recliner situated in front of the TV.

Although Richie was right about it not mattering too much how the place looked, he couldn't help but feel a little disappointed at having to stay in such a dull, depressing place. After seeing the lack of decor he wondered more and more what Richie's girlfriend must be like. Not like any woman he'd known, most of them would have this place looking a lot different. Richie had said his girl wasn't like most women, but that he'd leave it up to Ray to judge.

"How's it feel Ray? That old excitement me'n you used to get when we got a lead on something that could be big. 'Cept now you gotta consider, we don't have any inside advantages. No cops to help us out, you're an official huckster. You can't hide behind the badge no more. But look at the bright side, you can shoot someone and not feel too bad about it." Richie, screwing around just like old times. Sometimes it was funny and could help lighten spirits, sometimes it made him seem like a punk you'd end up wanting to hit.

"We gonna talk about this damn thing or just talk about talking about it? I need to know who this guy is, what he's like and all that jazz if I'm gonna do the talking."

"Don't rush it too much, Cat needs to know about it. I don't wanna have to explain everything twice, you've been around me enough to know I don't like to repeat myself more than I have to. Just kick it here until she gets back, meanwhile we can have a drink. Wild Turkey or Beam? Or both, choose your poison." Richie stood up and header for the kitchen.

"Whatever costs more." Ray said, smiling and revealing a row of white teeth below his aviators he still hadn't taken off.

Richie nodded in understanding and disappeared through the doorway into the kitchen. Ray sat uncomfortably for a few seconds, checking his watch and noting the time. It was 5:30 p.m., he was surprised at how fast it got late. When he thought about it, he remembered that in Liberty time almost always seemed to move three times faster than other cities, it had it's ups and it's downs. Ray looked around Richie's dwelling, it was amusing how out of character it seemed for a guy like Richie who normally acted a little like a hotshot. He found himself curious as to what was in that dresser, if anything. He stood up for a look around.

Catalina had just stepped out of the shower, and as she dried her hair she looked at her form in the mirror to make sure no more remnants of blood were left over. During the incident at Roscoe's, she'd gotten more blood on her face than she realized. Dried blood was annoying, and most places of business didn't like to serve people with it on their face.

Her hair glistened as she rubbed water out of it with a white, rough towel. After drying the rest of herself off, she slipped on her bathrobe and picked up her .38 from the sink to put it somewhere where it would be handy. As she looked down at the white porcelain that made up the sink and counter. Goddamnit, there was a crack in it. She looked back up at the mirror, the reflections blurry from layers of steam clinging to the glass. She wiped a section of it clear and looked at herself in her black silk robe that she'd accidentally packed in her suitcase when she stayed at a fairly upscale hotel one time, but took a liking to it.

As Catalina opened her bathroom door and walked into the master bedroom, if one could call it that, a wave of cool air swept over her and felt good. She looked around the room for a minute, examined the big king sized bed that she and Richie slept in most of the time. The massive, thick bedspread was a tan color with some cheesy flowers sewn on to it. Just a cheap thing she'd picked up in a thrift store, it worked well enough. But she looked away, at the door leading to the living room as she heard the sound of someone shuffling around on the other side of the wooden door.

Her immediate thought was Richie, but he wouldn't be going through the dresser out there as he kept nothing important in it. She crept up to the door and cracked it open just open to catch a short glimpse of a fat guy in a brown suit rummaging through one of the drawers. She grabbed her gun and held it ready.

At first Ray just wanted to take a couple of glances around the room, but curiosity killed the cat when he found himself wondering what was in those drawers. He opened the first one and found a bunch of random receipts, an old newspaper, and a dried out orange. He laughed out loud as he saw it's rotted brown peel laying there, staring up at him. The second drawer was topped off with a lot of paper clips and an old black stapler when all of a sudden, his hand brushed against something hard, and cold. He saw the glint of a dull, slightly yellowish shade of metal. Shit, was that a gu-

"Who the fuck are you?" Ray swung around to see a good looking hispanic woman with shining wet hair, in a black silk robe with a silver revolver pointed right at him.

He took a minute for words to come to him as he admired her body enclosed in that robe. Then he turned his attention to the .38 revolver aimed at his face. Now she was walking up to him.

"You a fucking cop? Huh? Answer me fat man, come on!" She extended her free hand and grabbed the front of the fat, cop looking guy in her living room's shirt. The guy winced as the cold steel barrel was shoved against his forehead. Catalina pulled back the hammer.

"Richie!" Ray yelled in his booming voice.

Richie was standing in the doorway holding two glasses of a dark colored whiskey, taking in the scene. He set the glasses down on the floor and walked in between Catalina and Ray's standoff, facing Catalina. He took the barrel of her gun and snatched it away from her, smiling now, thinking it was funny. Catalina grabbed for her gun but Richie grabbed both of her shoulders and held her still.

"Shut up Cat, this is Ray. Me'n him go way back. He just got outta the lockup and he needs work, and I've got a job blowin' in the wind. OK? Calm down!" Catalina was struggling against Richie's grip but he jerked her to the side and stabilized her writhing form.

"Come on sweetheart, can't we be friends? Huh? You always walk outta the shower with a gun in your hands? Scared me y'know."

Catalina looked unconvinced at Richie's story, "How is this fuck supposed to help us with a job? They're all walk in, wave the gun around, and walk out. You shoulda let me shoot him Richie!"

"Cat! Shut the fuck UP. He's not a cop, he's a friend of mine. I've known the mother fucker longer than I've known you! And the job I got planned ain't an armed robbery, no Cat, this's the big time. We're talkin' a lotta money, enough so we don't have to do any of this small time shit ever again. Sound good? Huh?" Richie stared her in the eyes, she stopped struggling and he let her go.

Ray chuckled at the scene, amused now that a gun wasn't being pressed against his head. "Nice to meet you eh, Catalina right?"

"Yeah, enough fat man. We can be friends when you help me get that money. First, you two need to explain this thing to me."

"Yeah, Richie. Tell us about it, you haven't even told me about it other than it would be clean and I'd need to be the guy that talks business while you do the legwork. And plus, I need a gun." Ray said.

Sorry for the weak chapter, I was quite stuck on this one... I don't plan on every chapter being this... bad.

And by the way, lots of thanks to Rodney (for helping me with the plot) and Kim (for giving me suggestions and reading over stuff) and of course Heather for... inspiration... or something.


	5. Chapter 5

Tony Fabrizzo's bony fingers were wrapped around the leather covering of his steering wheel, his cold grey eyes trained on the road in front of him. The tires of his blue Cadillac glided across the rough and foreboding pavement that made up the streets of Liberty City. It had rained less than a day ago, the streets were still soaked, the water reflecting the image of the Cadillac's headlights and creating a ghostly outline around the car.

Instincts alone guided him through all the right turns. He'd made this drive, from 'The Starlight' back to his four bedroom apartment many times. Each time he'd always felt oddly emotionless with several stray thoughts swimming around in his head. He remembered laying into that Leon guy, the guy couldn't take a beating very well and he'd felt a little sorry for him. Fabrizzo wasn't sure what the guy did, and wasn't totally sure the guy himself knew either. The boss was getting a little ruthless as time went on, more and more guys ended up against that wall, feeling Fabrizzo's blows opening gashes in their faces.

Tony still got a little pleasure out of hitting a guy in the face as hard as he could, the feeling of cartilage snapping as their nose busted under the pressure. Unfortunately it was getting a little old, and repetitive. Maybe it was the boss's old age, maybe he had personal problems fueling this complete lack of forgiveness. But Tony put up with it because he was supposed to, it was his job. The boss says jump, it was expected of Tony to say how high.

Tony took a right turn, only about two miles from his apartment now. He looked from side to side at the mostly empty sidewalks, a stray bum stumbling along the concrete every now and then, most likely trying to remember what alley they lived in. Tony's vision was a little blurry, he'd had a few drinks at 'The Starlight', something he found himself doing more often lately. It loosened him up a little, made him enjoy the beatings more. It also made his silent drives home a little more silent, a little more depressing.

He looked up at his rear view mirror, his own eyes staring back at him, cold and expressionless. His forehead was deeply lined from years of nights just like this one; returning from a tiresome job and a long night of drinking. A car rolled past on his left side, momentarily filling his eyes with a flash of white. He squinted and rubbed his eyes wearily, as if that would relieve his pounding headache. Tony was in a daze. His brain was in a fog, but all he knew was that he needed a good night's sleep.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get the boss out of his thoughts. He could try talking to him, but it wouldn't accomplish much. Maybe it wasn't just curiosity about what the boss was up to. Maybe he was unsatisfied. Unsatisfied about being a drone, a guy known only for roughing people up behind the boss's club, the boss's lap dog. He made enough money, but it wasn't the fucking _money. _He wanted a little respect, a little personality. Maybe a little power. Maybe everybody thought he was a lap dog, but he wasn't. It made him angry just thinking about it. He _wasn't _a drone and he was determined to prove it somehow.

His car rolled to a slow stop in front of the large apartment building he lived in. It was a nice place on Staunton Island called 'Hyman Condo's'. A four bedroom spread, with a fairly modern kitchen and bamboo bar stools. It had a white terrazzo floor and grey walls, on the fifteenth floor with a good view of the city skyline.

He cut off the engine of his Cadillac and slowly stepped out. He leaned against the side of the car and thought for a little while while observing the quiet atmosphere. It was about two in the morning, a time most people except thugs and vagrants were safely in bed. The moonlight cast a pale glow over Tony and his classy car, casting eerie reflections on nearby objects. Tony sighed as his body filled with the nostalgic ambience of Liberty City. He made up his mind that something would have to be done about the boss, he just didn't know yet...

Sorry this was short, but I was a little bit stuck and couldn't think of how to make it longer... so anyway, reviews are appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

"How'd you get caught for that bank job?" Richie asked, seated in an old dusty grey recliner which he had turned to face the sagging couch Ray was sitting on. Richie leaned backwards and stretched as if he was preparing for a long story.

"By bein' a fuckin idiot. I wanted to do it in an original way, so I figured it'd be funny to write the demands on a napkin and slip it to the clerk. So I take a napkin, find a place to write in the desk and start writing 'Empty the safe, don't touch the alarm, no one gets shot.' So I get done writing it, walk up to the teller, and lay it down in front of her. Young lady wearin' some purple uniform. I lay the napkin in front of her and take out my gun. She just looks at me, like she's scared. I didn't think nothin of it, I mean I had a fuckin hand cannon so I thought it was normal. I tell her to read the note, so she starts reading. Just then the cops bust in with guns, pullin the usual bullshit." Ray replied, taking a drag on a Lucky Strike.

"How'd they know?" Richie interrogated, leaning forward slightly.

"Turns out, when I was writing the note, some guy saw what I was writing and told the teller. Teller hit the silent alarm, few minutes later they were there." Ray said, sighing and sinking down in his seat as he recollected his own stupidity.

"Man, every body knows you don't try pulling fancy shit like that. You walk in, wave the gun around, tell them to open the safe and leave. You don't write little love notes to the goddamn teller." Richie said, laughing and suddenly becoming very animated as he usually did when the opportunity to make fun of someone presented itself.

"Yeah I know now, stupidest thing I ever done." Ray was blowing smoke out of his mouth now, "You know what gun I tried to use that time? That old Walther .32 we took from that drug dealer back in the day. You remember right? The one with the dreadlocks, white guy thought he was black? I think his name was somethin fucked up, real weird sounding."

"Shit! You mean the piece we took from Drexl?"

"Yeah, that was the guy. We shook down that crack bin he and his does partied in."

"Yeah yeah, I remember that well. Offered us ten grand to leave him alone." Richie laughed at the memory of the wannabe pimp with the scars above his eyes that he'd inflicted himself to look hard core.

Ray looked back at those times as the most exciting in his life. Drexl Spivey, the big shot pimp in the Red Light District of Liberty City. It wasn't long after the guy paid off Richie and Ray before he packed up dodge and headed to Detroit. Richie used to know about all the big players in town who were just waiting for a bent cop to come along looking for a pay off. Richie had informed him that nowadays they didn't mess with stuff like that, the only people around the Red Light District _these_ days were mafia grease balls who were a lot more organized, and chinese Triads who operated everything they were into from factories. There weren't any Drexl Spiveys around any more. He and his girl, the crazy broad named Catalina, just cruised around doing B and E and sticking up liquor stores.

"That reminds me Ray, you need a gun. I think I have a spare piece in the dresser, I'll check." Richie stood up from his chair and walked over to the dresser Ray had previously been looking through. After searching for a short time, he produced a medium sized Browning 380 automatic. The metal plating had a yellowish glint to it, looking old and unused.

Ray looked at the Browning and shifted uncomfortably. He stared at the gun for a moment and then turned his glare to Richie.

"Why do we need guns? You said this thing would be clean."

"Better to have a gun and not need it then need a gun and not have it. We're all gonna pack, no matter what. I also may have stretched the truth a little when I said it would be completely clean. There might be a little dirty work involved. Me and Cat worry about that, you talk to the guy, negotiate. Your good with words and talking, I don't know shit about that stuff." Richie laid the gun on the coffee table.

Ray frowned as he examined it some more, "That's mine?"

"Yeah."

"The fuckin thing's filthy, it's junk. You expect this guy to take me seriously when I'm packing that piece of shit? Your girl has that shiny revolver and _she's _going to be doing the dirty work?"

"What the fuck does it matter? That cannon Cat has holds 6 bullets, that's shit in a fire fight. That Browning holds fifteen in the magazine and one in the tube. That's sixteen times you can fire if you're in a pinch. My beretta holds twenty in the mag, bought it from a jack boy don't at the Quays for fifty bucks. It ain't about what the damn thing looks like." Richie picked up the Browning in his right hand and mockingly aimed it at Ray.

"Let me see what you carry."

"What?"

"Let me see it!"

"Fuck man, fine." Richie stood up and pulled a silver beretta from beneath his shirt, jammed into his pants by his right hip.

"You got one of those damn things too!"

"If you two aren't the biggest fuck ups I've ever seen... Guns are everywhere! We don't need to worry about guns!" Catalina had appeared in the front door, carrying two pizza boxes. She was wearing a pair of black sunglasses that hid her amused expression for the most part.

Ray liked her looks a lot, one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever seen. But christ, she was crazy. She had almost ruptured Richie's spleen when he asked her to go pick up the pizzas for them and she slugged him in the gut before storming out the door.

"We need a car if we want to be respectable. Not that shit box beater outside. Something nice." Catalina set the pizza boxes down on the table and withdrew her revolver, "You take this fat man, I'd rather have the other one. I might get the urge to shoot you, and if I do I want to do it more than six times."

Ray chuckled and picked up the Browning, "Sweetheart, if I get in a situation when you're going to be blasting at me, I don't want you to have sixteen chances to hit me. The way I see it, you only got six bullets then I have a better chance to live. Sound good?"

Catalina leaned closer to him, her words rolling off her tongue in a piercing whisper, "Six is five more than I need. The rest are for fun."

Richie interrupted, "Alright kids, play time is over. Catalina is right, we need some wheels. So let's go."

Catalina laughed for the first time since he met her as she turned around to open the door.


	7. Chapter 7

Leon's elbows rested on the wooden bar of the lounge he had stopped in, his head was slumped forward in his hands. Swelling had taken place above both of his eyes, and his nose throbbed repeatedly, rhythmically. He'd already had two straight bourbons, he asked the bartender to give him another one. The bartender was a short, skinny guy with black hair slicked back against his scalp. When Leon had first come in, it had looked like he was wearing a white uniform with a black bow tie, placed neatly on the front of his shirt. A few drinks scrambled the little bartender's image a little, causing his bow tie to look a little more lopsided and he eyes look a little too small for his face.

All around him people socialized, drank, danced, all without a care in the world. Leon had told the cab driver to take him back to his place, but once he got there he decided he needed a drink and didn't have anything at his place. He drove his blue Cadillac to the closest bar he could find and immediately started sucking back bourbon. As the night dragged on, the sound of the other barflies become more and more garbled, his sight began swimming around in his head, and the short little bartender began looking more and more twisted. Soon his words were slurred as he tried to order more bourbon, eventually he could only manage to tap his glass.

When he had first arrived, he'd had a couple advances from some single and looking women. He wasn't in the mood for small talk and told them to get lost. He later felt sorry about it, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered because everything had gone wrong and there was no way to fix it. There are people who get mad and can find it in them to forget, there are people who get mad but aren't ruthless enough to see that their problem is taken care of, and then there was the boss. The boss would not let it go, no matter how trivial it was. Leon found himself wondering about the usual things people who get in trouble wonder about, like what would have happened if he had gone to college and became an accountant, or a lawyer, or something. Or maybe what would have happened if he had stopped associating with criminals like his ex-wife had wanted him too.

His ex-wife, real pretty girl named Earlene, had not minded him going into that kind of work at first. The plan was do it for awhile, put away some cash, and get a real job. But he found it too easy to give up, and went right on doing it. Earlene yelled at him about it all the time, until one day she finally left. Leon remembered feeling a little lost and dismayed when he found the note she had left, telling him to have fun dealing with hustlers and gangsters. For awhile he had started drinking a lot after he came home from a day of driving trucks back and forth from the boss's club to different warehouses and apartments around town, until he realized that it was giving him headaches in the morning. He had stopped for the most part, only having a drink now and then every few weeks.

After he cured his slight drinking problem, he took to bar hopping for awhile and was fairly successful, being an average looking guy with brown hair, a medium build, and a neat head of brown hair that had yet to start turning grey. He was just short of six feet tall and dressed in a casual but nice enough manner. He also got to hang out at The Starlight as a result of working for the owner.

Leon started to ask for another bourbon and was suddenly reminded his speech was screwed up from the alcohol, and a muffled, intangible mumble came out instead. The blurry form of the funny looking little waiter was leaning against the bar, looking at him.

"Look, buddy. I think you've had enough. Go on home, call a cab." A voice said, reverberating around in his brain several times before registering.

Leon managed to lift his head, which had suddenly gotten very heavy. Through watery, bloodshot eyes he looked the waiter in the face and tried to make his words understandable, "Give me a bourbon..."

"Man I told you, no more. You're fucked up enough as it is, you get in trouble then we the ones that get blamed. Get outside and hail a cab. You want, I'll call one for you. But no more liquor buddy." The waiter stepped backward and began polishing a glass with a towel, looking away from Leon.

"Give me a fucking drink, I ain't had none, not, none enough yet... Shit... Give me a bourbon!" Leon pounded his fist down on the table and started to stand up, but slipped and fell back down on his bar stool.

The waiter grew irritated as his beady little eyes darted around the bar room and settled upon someone in the corner, "Marty! Get this guy outta here, he's smashed. Just toss him out in the parking lot."

The weasly bartender had a half wiseguy, half boston accent, pronouncing Marty as _Mahty. _Before he had a chance to react, Leon felt himself being grappled around the waist and dragged towards the bar entrance. He couldn't find it in him to struggle as he watched the room and the people in it float around in slow motion in front of his eyes. A black mist clouded his vision momentarily as he felt his back hit the damp pavement of the parking lot. He laid there for a little while, staring up at the sky and most likely ruining his sport coat, before he shakily brought himself to his feet and began the seemingly endless walk to his car. He wasn't too sure where he had parked it, which led to him aimlessly wandering around the lot and looking around him at the various types of cars.

He spotted what he thought was his Cadillac, the blue glint of it's paint job catching his eye. As he reached into his pocket for his car keys, he missed a step and went tumbling to the ground. He hit his head pretty hard on the cold, rocky surface of the pavement. His intoxication covered up the pain but didn't help the light headed feeling much. Then another force met with his body, again not producing much pain but still affecting him. He doubled over as the same force seemed to inflict itself upon his stomach. He opened his heavy eyelids and could make out the dark, seemingly featureless silhouette standing over him. It looked like a female, but he wouldn't have sworn on it. Another form appeared next to the one already there. He could make out what they were doing now, fuck, they were kicking him. After dealing a few more harsh blows, he could hear some garbled speech, having no idea what the words were.

Soon he felt himself once more being dragged, this time by his feet, towards his car. Yet another person walked up behind him and picked up his fallen car keys. Everything happened very quickly as he was thrown into the back seat of his own Cadillac. He soon felt it moving, and looked around him sleepily to see the female assailant driving the vehicle, someone sitting in the passenger seat, and a fatter looking shape sitting in the back seat with him.

Leon could feel his face twisting into a crooked, toothy grin as his hand slid into the front of his jacket. He was feeling a little aggressive, maybe just because of the alcohol. It didn't matter, he had nothing to lose. His fingers brushed against the grip of his silver Colt .45. He slowly performed a sweep of the interior of the vehicle with his eyes before ripping the heavy gun out of his coat and blindly aiming it at nothing in particular. The sudden movement caused pounding pain to suddenly throw his already weak train of thought. Shit, he couldn't tell what he was aiming at. He quickly started to fan the hammer, but the figure in the back seat with him swung a harsh blow that caused him to lose hold of the gun and drift off to unconsciousness. He welcomed the weightless feeling and let it overcome him.

Here's the new chapter... people. By the way, thanks a LOT to my friend Kim for giving me advice and helping me out with some of my writing problems. I really appreciate it, you've been really helpful!

The events in this chapter happened quickly because of Leon's drunken state of mind, I'm planning on writing the next chapter from his attacker's point of view in a sober mindset to retell it, so you just wait...


	8. Chapter 8

Enjoy chapter 8. To Neozeon, while this story does have the same name as the movie Small Time Crooks, it's not meant to have anything whatsoever to do with it. I wasn't even thinking of the movie at all when I put 'Ray' into the story... Just so you know that. If anyone wants to contact me (Even just to tell me I suck, I don't mind), contact me on aol instant messenger at dizzydave560. Once again.. enjoy, and sorry for the long time it took me to update, I'll try to be more prompt after this. And to lordmasterkris, I'm currently in the midst of reading your story "Making it the Hard Way", I'm about 6 chapters through it. I'll leave a review when I'm done with the rest (I'm going kinda slow, something always seems to interrupt me when I start reading)

"Why are we sitting here again? We came here for a car, why don't we go get one? I like the blue Cadillac in the corner over there." Ray said as he sat in the back seat of Richie and Catalina's tan colored, beat up Honda. Richie was planted behind the steering wheel, leaning forward and peering into the dark parking lot in front of them.

"We gotta wait, take our time, look around." Richie said, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

Catalina, resting her right elbow against the passenger side door, began to chuckle at Richie's statement. An impatient Ray looked over at her.

"Somethin funny?"

Catalina turned around to look Ray in the face, "He's making excuses. He wants to wait for the owner of the car to come out because this fuck up doesn't know how to hot wire."

Ray looked over at Richie, squinting as the glare from a streetlight entered his vision, "Man I met you when you were boosting a set of wheels. You tellin me you, a guy who was arrested for grand theft auto, doesn't know how to hot wire a car?"

Richie began to mumble a response, trying to form an excuse, but Catalina cut him off. "He told me the story of when he met you, the fucking keys were already in the car."

Ray sank back against the ruined interior of the Honda, feeling the torn surface of the pleather interior against his brown suit. A low laugh emanated from his throat. "You gotta be kidding me, the badass, ruthless criminal associating with corrupt cops can only steal cars that have the keys in them? Jesus christ, I thought I was dealing with a professional."

Richie slammed his fist down onto the steering wheel and quickly turned around to face the dark back seat. The streetlight up ahead shone brightly around the outline of his face, forming a sort of eclipse. "Shut the fuck up man, what we're gonna do is sit here, wait for the owner of that Caddy to waltz out of that door, throw him in the back, and drive off. I don't wanna sit here telling fucking jokes the whole time. Pay attention."

Ray was amazed at Richie's sudden burst of anger, especially since Richie was the kind of guy who was always telling jokes and trying to get people mad. Ray chalked it up to nervousness, something that happened to most people of the criminal profession during the early stages of a job that would lead to a big payoff. He didn't blame Richie for being nervous, the job didn't sound like such a sure thing.

"Let's go over this thing while we're waiting for this guy, who I might add might not come out all night." Ray said as he drew a Lucky Strike from a pack of cigarettes laying on the seat next to him.

"Alright, I'll give you an overview. It's pretty simple, we hook up with this big shot guy, name's Mo Casino-" Richie began, turning his gaze back to the windshield once more.

"Wait, what? Mo Casino?"

"That's his fuckin name Ray."

Ray leaned forward, past a bored looking Catalina who was staring out the right side window, at the surrounding cheap motels and run down gas stations. "That his _real _name?"

"That's what everyone calls him and he answers to it, and I really don't care one way or another. His first name's Mo, last name's Casino, that's all that's important."

"If you say so."

"Anyway, we hook up with Mo, act like we're some aspiring criminals looking for work, he'll think we're a group of space cadets who think they can do anything so he'll most likely give us work, just to try us out. Get him to let us do a job or two, whatever we can do to get in close. Now this guy has his fingers in a lotta pies all over the city, hotels, nightclubs, drugs, weapons, you name it he's into it. All we gotta do is get him to trust us enough to negotiate a deal for him. He gives us the cash, we take it and scram. He operates most things from his nightclub on the edge of the city, real swanky place called The Starlight. I think it costs about a hunnerd bucks to get in there but I'm not sure, we can find him there."

"You think someone as big as him is going to trust three street punks who walked up to him one day asking for jobs? If this guy's at big as you say, he ain't stupid." Ray said, unconvinced.

"Think long term Ray, it might take some time, but trust me on this one. With our muscle and your, eh, people skills, it won't be as hard as it sounds. The only problem we might be facing is this guy who hangs around Casino all the time. He's a hired gun, does whatever he's told. Basically..." Richie's voice trailed off for a minute as he tried to formulate his own speech inside his head, "Basically this guy's a lapdog. If he gets wise then we're in big fucking trouble because he ain't gonna let no one fuck with his boss."

"How much we gonna score?" Cloud of smoke swam around in front of Ray's face, filling the car with the repugnant stench of tobacco and prompting Catalina to roll down her window.

"I don't know yet. I'm hopin a couple mil, but I don't know. We'll play it by ear, cross that bridge when we come to it. What you gotta learn my friend, is to live in the moment. Concentrate on the here and the now, you can't spend all your time thinkin about what's gonna happen down the line, thinkin like that will make it hard to enjoy the money we score. Now let's sit back and watch that drunk that just got thrown out of the bar stumble around in a daze. I got twenty bucks sayin' he don't get up for awhile, and if he does he don't stay up for long." Richie settled back in his seat and looked on as an average height, brown haired man was forcefully shoved out of the front door of the establishment, landing flat on his back and staying there for awhile.

After laying there on the wet pavement for a few minutes, the drunk slowly and unsteadily rose to his feet, bracing himself with his arms on the ground. The guy began slowly trudging through the parking lot with a drunken swagger, his right leg almost crumpling under him several times. Catalina leaned forward and peered through the windshield as the stumbling figure wandered aimlessly through the crowd of cars. The back of the guy's tan sport coat was speckled with pieces of chipped off parking lot clinging to the wet material, most likely ruining it. Every once in awhile the guy would began looking at a car, and then decide it wasn't his and continued wandering around. He was actually walking in circles through the lot, passing the blue Cadillac three times. Ray wondered if it belonged to him, but didn't think so since most people who spend their time getting drunk in the dives that are the nightclubs of Liberty City usually don't do anything that can get them the kind of money needed to own a car like that.

"This has got to be a joke," Richie suddenly said, breaking the silence created by the spectators of the pitiful scene. He was laughing as he opened the door on his side and began to step out, "That's the guy!"

Ray didn't comprehend at first, looking at Richie who had started to walk over to the drunken man. He then looked over at Catalina who was also stepping out of the car. Ray followed suit and began to exit the vehicle, looking at the drunk who now had his hand in his coat pocket. Ray realized the guy was staring at the blue Cadillac, shit, he was the fucking owner. Ray brightened up immediately, trotting ahead of Richie and Catalina and already pulling his old Browning out of his inside pocket. As he approached the unaware drunk, he circled around so he was standing directly behind him. Ray took two steps forward, held his pistol above his head, and brought it down with a massive force just as the drunk was about to take a step.

It was like hitting a rotten pumpkin as the useless man crumpled to the ground in a heap, hitting his head on the pavement with a dull but sickening thud. Immediately Richie and Catalina were standing beside Ray, looking down at the dazed drunk, who was absently staring back up at them.

"What do we do with him?" Richie inquired, not taking his eyes away from the staring eyes of the drunk.

"Take him somewhere, put two in the back of his head and dump him, it's pretty simple." Catalina said, already beginning to pick the drunk up by the arms.

Richie grabbed him by his feet and the two lifted him up into the air while Ray picked up the fallen car keys and unlocked the back seat door. Within seconds everyone was inside the car, Catalina took her place behind the wheel, Richie sat down in the passenger side seat, and Ray sat in the back with the drunk, who was now starting to bleed from the pistol whipping he received from Ray. The powerful car roared to life as Catalina turned the key, the headlights lit up and illuminated the nearby area. She threw the car in reverse, backing out of the parking space they were in and then putting it back in drive. She eased her foot down on the gas and headed for the street.

Ray was looking down at the drunk, who was still staring up at him. An eery grin formed on his sweating face, revealing two rows of teeth that were splattered with blood. Ray decided he must have been beaten by someone else besides him, because after a closer look, it was obvious that his nose was a little crooked and both of his eyes were very swollen. There was dried blood on his desk and on the front of his tan coat, and a greenish blue bruise adorned his right cheek. Ray shook his head and turned to look out the front of the car. That was when he heard a loud groan come from within the drunk's throat. Ray looked over to him and was met with the sight of a silver Colt .45 aimed at the side of the car. The drunk looked like he was trying to steady the weapon but couldn't concentrate enough through his intoxication to do it. Ray swiftly balled up his large, fat fist and brought it down as hard as he could on the drunk's face, crushing his nose even more and causing the drunk to lose hold of his weapon. The drunk stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds before his eyelids slowly closed and unconsciousness took over.


	9. Chapter 9

Ray looked down at the small whiskey glass he held loosely in his hand, staring down into the dull brown whiskey and getting a faint, out of proportion reflection staring back at him. Richie was back in his arm chair, and Catalina was in her bedroom, keeping quiet. Richie looked around at his dull apartment, and then at Ray. He leaned forward a little, trying to signal for Ray to start a conversation so he wouldn't have to. Ray saw the look, but pretended not too and kept on staring at his whiskey for a short time before taking a small sip and sinking back into the tattered surface of Richie's couch. Richie grew tired of waiting and spoke up, ruining the peaceful yet uncomfortable silence.

"I don't think it was smart to park the car at the building. Someone coulda seen us that knows that don't belong to us, or someone could just see the car and wonder how anyone that lives here could afford it. I also have a small problem with the unconscious drunk cat laying on the floor over there." Richie sat silent for a moment, waiting for some input from Ray, who was in the middle of another sip of whiskey, "OK, this guy was in a bar at ten p.m. sucking back drinks with nothing better to do. Guy owns a fuckin Cadillac, a nice one, and has a big shiny gat in his coat. You think he's some bum who wandered in? I'm really doubting that. This guy is _somebody, _I don't know who, but he ain't a vagrant."

Ray looked up, setting his now empty glass down on the coffee table in front of him and looking to his right, at the heap in the corner was the drunk they'd picked up in front of the bar. He was out cold, laying on the ground motionless except the rhythmic heaving of his chest as he took in breath. Ray smirked to himself and looked back to Richie. "I guess we need to wake his ass up and ask him, don't we?"

"Hey man, that sounds like a plan to me. Long as he ain't got this thing," Richie tossed the large, silver .45 onto the coffee table in front of Ray, it landed with a loud clang and came to a rest, the barrel absently pointed towards the front door, "Let's wake him up?"

Ray and Richie both began slowly walking toward the motionless person, each of them staring down at him, and then back at each other. Ray bent down and hoisted his upper torso into the air, dragging him a short distance and propping him up against the brown wall. Ray grunted a little as the dead weight of the drunk caused him to seem heavier. Ray straightened himself, watching the drunk's head drooping forward, his eyelids never fluttering.

Richie contemplated how he was going to wake him up, or if he would even be able too. It didn't look like this guy was going to be moving for awhile, and he didn't particularly want to beat him up any more.

"Ray, hand me that glass." Richie said as he kneeled down and took a closer look at the drunk. Ray handed him a half empty glass of whiskey from the table and watched closely..

Immediately Richie turned the glass on its side and doused the drunk's face with the liquid inside, and then proceeded to lightly slap the side of his face.

Leon's head was pounding as he was suddenly aware of his own consciousness. Stinging pain returned to his beaten face as he felt an excruciating throbbing take place all over his body. He slowly struggled to lift his heavy eye lids. They slowly opened, revealing the blurred image of someone in front of him, and depressing brown walls surrounding everything. His left eye was swollen almost completely shut, not helping the fact the he already couldn't see very well. Gradually the scene in front of him grew more clear, and he realized that a middle aged guy with dusty black hair, couple day's worth of stubble on his chin, and a cocky grin on his face was staring at him. He didn't bother attempting to speak, instead he tried to ease his hangover into a state of being bearable. He wasn't even sure if it could be considered a hang over, he still felt pretty drunk and heavily disoriented. The fact that he'd been car jacked and taken to a place he'd never been to before by total strangers wasn't helping much.

"Come on, wake up. Me'n you gotta talk." The guy in front of him was saying.

Leon groaned slightly, ignoring him. Jumping him and stealing his car wasn't exactly what these guys should have done if they were planning on Leon talking to them. He knew his gun was gone, as he no longer felt it's stiff metal form against his chest. Two armed men against one beaten and drunk Leon. No chance of escape here. Smooth talking them was an option, or he could beg. Why? His boss was going to kill him in a couple of weeks anyway so these guys could go ahead and do their worst. Leon lifted his head and looked the middle aged guy in the eye.

"Wakey wakey," Richie's grin widened, "Eggs and bakey."

"Where am I?" Leon stuttered a little, trying to make his tongue not feel as if it were swollen to the size of a football.

"That's not important. I need to know who you work for. I like your car a lot by the way, it's very classy." Richie sat down on the floor to get comfortable as Ray looked on in amusement.

"Fuck you."

"Come again?" Richie drew his fist back and knocked Leon's head against the wall behind him with a punch to the right side of his face.

Leon's eyes watered as he desperately tried to shake off the growing pain in his face. It became even more swollen as his head slumped forward and blood trickled onto his filthy clothes from wounds in his mouth. Less than half a day ago he was getting paid ridiculous amounts of money to do menial tasks, and he was happy doing it. He had had a comfortable life and a less than dismal future. Now he was half beaten to death in a stranger's apartment with a life clock that was going to run out soon one way or another. Some guys get all the luck.

Some don't get any at all.

Richie's grin had faded as soon as the words had escaped Leon's lips. "Fuck me? I'm the one with the gun here! Do you know what that means?" Richie waited for an answer and didn't get one. He lifted Leon's head up by the chin and forced him to open his eyes, "That means fuck YOU! Now tell me who you work for and what you can tell us!"

"I can tell you it hurts like shit to get the hell beaten out of you after you've already gotten the hell beaten out of you." Leon said deadpan as he spat a mouthful of blood into the stranger's face.

Richie jumped back, wiping frantically at his face. "Mother fucker! I'll slit your throat you punk!" He screamed as he searched for some form of hanker chief or napkin. Ray chuckled to himself as took Richie's place in front of the bleeding man on the floor.

"That was pretty good, blood in the face and all. I tell you, you're lucky if he doesn't fuck you up now. Hey, I won't lie. I'd be pissed to if you spat in my face. Look, we won't kill you if you tell us what we want to know. Cops avoid this place like the plague, so don't think we'll be careful if you act difficult. I'll personally paint this room with your fucking blood if you don't start talking, ok?" Ray's raspy voice explained casually.

"Guess what asshole? I don't have anything to lose. My death warrant's signed anyway so why should I tell anything to a sociopath like you? Kill me now if you're going to do it. Take the car, have a blast. I don't care." Leon said angrily as he wished the fat guy in front of him would back off so he could bask in his own misery uninterrupted.

His wishes weren't answered as Ray held Leon's head against the wall. "Seriously, start talking. We're getting fed up. Once Richie cleans that shit off his face you're in trouble. Who do you work for?"

"Haven't we been over this?" Leon said stubbornly as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Ray sighed heavily and let go of Leon's head. As he stood up slowly, he tried to think of what to do. Was this guy even worth it? Probably just some guy who got wasted off his ass one night. That's nothing special, especially in Liberty. Shady dealings could get a guy a car like that, it wasn't a big deal. As Ray sauntered over to the table to pick up the immobile .45, Richie burst into the room holding a hammer. There was a small amount of dried blood still on his face from the mouthful he received from the drunk, and a crazed look was in his eyes.

"Ok motherfucker, this is how it is." Richie stood in front of Leon, the rusted hammer hanging lazily at his side, "Tell me what the deal is now or this little piggy's going to market!"

Richie leaned down and held the hammer readily above Leon's right foot. Leon sighed heavily, producing a coughing attack after a rattling in his throat caused more blood to make it's way out of his mouth. "Ok, ok ok. Don't do that. Look, I'm going to get killed anyway so I guess it doesn't matter what I tell you. Just put down the hammer, please." Leon said hopelessly as he leaned his head back so that he didn't have to support it himself.

Richie looked up, almost disappointed. Breaking the guy's spirit was overshadowed by the fact that he was still pissed over having gotten spit on. Whatever, he still planned on killing the poor asshole after he got a confession anyway. He'd do it painfully too, or at least let Catalina have whatever fun she wanted. She kept a power drill in the top drawer of her dresser, just in case.

"I'm not important, alright? So don't get the wrong idea. All I do is drive trucks back and forth for Mo Casino." There was a click from behind Richie as Ray had pulled the hammer back on the .45. The barrel was trained at the guy's head as if he were seconds away from firing. However, upon mention of Mo Casino, his expression had changed completely. He let the gun fall to the ground and hastily leaned forward once again so that he was eye level with Leon.

"Mo Casino?" Ray asked, almost excitedly. A broad grin came over his face as he turned to face Richie, "Small fuckin' world isn't it?


End file.
